Gratuitous
by smalld1171
Summary: Plot?  Um, not really.  Just Dean, caught in the rain and dealing with clingy clothing and an injury.  Dedicated to my SPN Discussion Group buddies.
1. Chapter 1

**Gratuitous**

**This little story doesn't have much in the way of a plot. Just something frivolous featuring Dean caught in the rain and dealing with 'clingy' clothing along with an injury. A gift from me to my SPN buddies (you girls know who you are). **

**I have about a buzillion stories that aren't finished; my brain seems to have dried up after a few rough weeks living in the real world. My plan is to have one more chapter eventually. I apologize ahead of time if I am slow in posting the next. **

**I own nothing to do with SPN. **

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><p>As he begins to trudge back from the Impala, his slightly concussed brother securely situated in the passenger seat, he hears the first drop echo against the fabric of his jacket. His gaze lifts up slightly and he grunts when his reward for that move is a freakin raindrop right in his eye. Perfect.<p>

He pushes his own injuries aside and quickens his pace, urged on by the thought of how replacing mud instead of dirt into that damn hole is not something he can handle right now. The rain is sporadic and light and he intends to get this job done before that small mercy is ripped out from under him.

It's a warm night and it's hard work, doubly so when you find yourself down a man. Soon he has to pause to wipe a palm across his forehead and through his hair, the feel of sweat slick on his fingers.

He glances once more to the sky that now seems to offer nothing more to him than the infrequent drop. He is suddenly desperate to feel the relief it had teased him with and aches for the touch of it, to help ease the heat that now rolls throughout his body.

Trickle after trickle of sweat unleashes itself from his warmed skin to pool and gather in places that are more than a tad uncomfortable.

He moans at the exertion, as he digs and throws pile after pile of earth back onto the coffin, the cut on his side starting to ache under the strain. A quick look down solidifies the reason for the burst of pain that runs through him, a patch of red presenting itself to mix with the layers of sweat that now coat his skin.

The rain starts to increase in its frequency, no longer intermittent but a steady, light misting, pulsing against his flesh. He shrugs but doesn't mind, he finds its presence is no longer an irritation and welcomes the persistent sensation of it as it lands in his hair and drips down to sizzle against his skin.

He soldiers on, his muscles starting to scream out from fatigue. Soon the previous, almost insurmountable mound of dirt is reduced to a small layer of earth.

By the time he positions the last heap onto its resting place he is panting, ragged breaths escaping his lips as his strength decides to leave him on mass. He pats down the grave and leans heavily against the shovel, only then seeming to notice yet another increase in the rain, as it comes down faster and faster and quickly starts to turn the earth around him into a slippery field of mud.

He feels the heaviness of his jacket on his shoulders, its usefulness long since gone, the material drenched and sopping in the ever increasing deluge. He peels off the offending layer of clothing and chides himself for not doing that sooner; he feels degrees cooler, standing and relishing the rain that now pelts against his aching, fevered skin.

His shirt clings to him, sticks to every curve of each muscle it hides underneath its flimsy fabric. He gazes to the heavens once again and this time basks in the refreshment of the water that washes over him; that streams down on him from the sky above. His eyes close as the droplets journey from his hair to roll and rest within the thickness of his lashes, before dropping off the edge of his eyes to mingle with the water already present on his freckled skin.

He jumps at the brightness he sees beneath his closed lids, the first bolt of lightning announcing itself with warning.

When the thunder comes, it brings with it sheets of pelting rain, pounding into his exposed flesh like pellets of ice.

And it's in that moment that he seems to snap out of his daze and feel the full brunt of Mother Nature, as he shivers against the coldness that seems to have infiltrated his body to the core.

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><p><strong>TBC... Thanks for stopping by and feel free to let me know what you thought! :D<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi and welcome! I apologize for not responding to your lovely reviews as of yet but I hope each of you know how much they truly mean to me! I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Poor Dean... injured... cold... and sopping wet. ;) Oh, and there will be more chapters... **

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><p>He curses the shiver that swaths a path from his chattering teeth to each of his limbs, to every taut muscle, fibre and atom in his body. The rain seeps and crawls relentlessly through the layers of his skin until it manages to wriggle into the sinew and muscle, continuing its journey to nestle itself tight and secure deep inside his bones.<p>

He wonders with a smirk if this is what it feels like to be a sponge, with streams of water effectively seeking and reaching out to soak into the porousness of skin until it's ready to burst. He watches the moisture dribble across his water logged flesh, fascinated by the way it is in constant motion, its fingers exploring every single contour and crevasse of his form.

His shirt sucks in whatever water it can until it can take no more and the water is forced to march on, dripping downward to settle into the band of his denim. Soon he can feel water slide between the clothing and his skin, the fabric sucking tightly to him in every region the moisture manages to touch.

He watches and stares, fixated on the journey of a single drop. He eyes it closely as it skirts along the already sodden material of his pants until it reaches an area seemingly untouched by the storm. It seems to speed up then, as if anxious and excited to arrive before the others. It twists and turns to mark a darkening pattern along the denim until it halts its progress and disappears, having been absorbed within.

He watches for another minute or two as excess droplets use gravity to slope and descend down his goose pimpled and quivering flesh to find a new home in the confines of his boots. He remembers something as he feels the liquid begin to pool at his feet. Wet socks suck.

He snorts and shakes his head. He is definitely going to keep his trip down whatever the hell that just was to himself. He's tired and cold and he's watching _raindrops_. That can't be good.

He drags his hand over his face in an act of both futility and habit, knowing full well that little sideshow of his cost him whatever speck of dryness he may have still held. He, along with the surroundings, the shovel, and even the damn earth itself are now saturated through and through. Awesome.

He curls his fingers around the handle and pulls but the mud clings and sticks to it, pulling back with just as much vigour to effectively suck the tool back into the sludge. Playing a round of freakin tug of war with the ground has got to be a new one, even for him.

He groans in frustration and stops to take in as deep a breath as he can muster, the cool air seeming to freeze into his lungs. Finding what purchase he can in the slippery ground beneath his feet, he tightens his grip and reams up on the shovel once more. He feels the earth finally surrender its hold and let go of its prey, the roar of the rain and wind blanketing the moist slurp he is sure accompanied the release, like it just gagged and spewed out its latest meal.

His smile of victory turns from delight to exasperation as he stumbles from the backlash of his success and feels his tenuous hold on the terrain give way. Appendages fly in all directions and the wind is knocked out of him as he lands hard on his back, his side being jostled just enough to send a fresh wave of nauseating agony through his flailing form.

He narrowly misses getting clubbed in the head by his own shovel and can't do anything more that shut his eyes to ward off the stinging rain and the increasing throb in his side.

Fighting the fog of fatigue and the overwhelming message his brain sends him to just stay right there until this whole thing blows over, he presses a chilled, on the verge of numb hand against his side. He blinks through the rain to watch dazedly as blood flows freely through his fingers, only to be washed away over and over again by the torrent that continues to come from above.

His other hand slaps to the earth, the unmistakable sensation of mud squishing under his weight making him groan again.

He forces himself to stand and feels the ache of numbness litter his entire being. He picks up the shovel and has to look down to make sure he is actually holding it, the feeling in his fingertips deciding to give it up and his brain no longer able to register the sensation.

He looks briefly to the discarded equipment strewn about the gravesite but decides the hell with it, instead turning to try and catch sight of where it was exactly that he left the Impala. He smirks when he catches a glimpse of her silhouette in the distance. He starts to drag his feet along the ground, at least he assumes he does because although he does seem to be moving, he can't feel a damn thing except for the increasing constriction of the saran wrap he now seems to be encased in. His gaze narrows in on her ebony skin, his aching body and mind longing to feel the comfort, warmth and protection she never fails to provide.

He looks like something out of a bad horror flick. A flash of lightning illuminates his slow, languid procession along the graveyard, his body listing to the side as he drags the shovel behind him, its body tossed roughly along the uneven ground.

As his baby looms closer, he reaches out a hand to touch her but the move only manages to make him trip over his own feet, while the lure of his sanctuary remains just beyond his grasp.

His sluggish mind takes this opportunity to notice, as he starts to fall awkwardly and face first to the ground, that the rain has started to subside. The impact of the earth meeting his numbed flesh is akin to the sensation of tiny shards of glass embedding themselves into his skin. He breathes deeply and turns his head to the side but makes no further efforts to move, despite the rational part of his brain telling him it's a bad idea to rest.

He tries to move something, anything, but he can't. He is exhausted and sore, and wants nothing more than to sleep, all of his energy reserves beyond the point of depletion. He allows his eyes to close and feels himself start to drift into blackness within moments.

The last sound he hears is what he thinks is a car door, followed by a panicked call of his name.

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><p><strong>TBC... Thanks for stopping by! :D<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi and welcome back. Thanks for all the lovely comments to this story, I hope you will continue to enjoy.**

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><p>The scent of rotting earth; of mud and decomposing leaves silently creeps along the ground and reaches up to assault the nose placed against it. He tries to get his bearings, tries to crawl his way back from the unconscious world to figure out what the hell that putrid stench is; not to mention the fact he thinks he just sucked up something nasty through his right nostril.<p>

Mud. Shovel. Wet. Rain… there was something about rain… and getting to his baby…

He stops the litany inside his head, the effort it takes overtaxing it and making it ache. He seems to nestle right into the earth; the ground's mushy texture and consistency providing a weird sort of cushion beneath his weary frame. If it wasn't for that smell, and the fact that he can feel the frigidness of the night air on his skin, he would think he was just hanging out on another crappy motel bed. Then again, that would _almost_ account for the aroma too. Almost.

As his brain tries to reignite its fried synapses to upload and reboot the area that controls his muscles, a faint sound rumbles in his ears and he tries to zero in on it through the fog that has rolled in to blanket his head. Its crescendo builds and he homes in on it; an utterly irritating click clack noise pierces its way to the walls of his skull and he bubbles with annoyance when he clues into its source. Unbelievable. His damn teeth are chattering like one of those freakin wind-up toys. He presses his lips together in an effort to stifle the sound, but that move proves to be about as useful as an ice cube in Hell.

His body spasms, as wakefulness makes a triumphant return, and a violent shudder grabs hold and torments his weakened frame. His side sears in agony as the signals he sends to his body to control it are openly defied. That's it. As of this exact second he mentally adds rain onto his ever increasing list of things he's got a major hate-on for.

Every part of his body revolts as he feels the ick factor reach a climax; he's saturated from head to toe and figures he can add mud and grime and who knows what else to the list of fluids he has painted on his flesh. He trembles again and wants nothing more than to seek out the darkness he has just emerged from, longing to let it erase the instinct beating through his head to 'get up and get the hell out' to instead leave this ultra crapfest behind.

But, of course and as always, what Dean Winchester wants is left in the dust and his desire to just lay there and be is ripped away in a heartbeat.

Consciousness can be a vengeful bitch.

It begins with a slight and gentle pressure on his face but transforms instantly into anything but gentle or slight. Amid the frozen wasteland that has infiltrated his veins there is now the additional joy of fire; as it erupts and burns the flesh it rests upon.

This sucks ass. He and his brain are so not working on the same team; the damn thing keeps sending him mixed signals; one part of him roasting in flame like a freakin marshmellow while the rest is kept submerged in a layer of ice.

The sensation stops and he sighs in relief as the heat slowly dissipates from his flesh and his attention once again shifts to that incessant click clack. He feels drained and his head lolls its way back to the ground, probably only an inch from where he raised it in agony. His body starts to reaffirm its acquaintance with numbness and even the constant drone inside his mouth blissfully begins to fade to the background. He expels a contented wisp of air out onto his makeshift bed and lazily hovers, anxiously awaiting his submission to the beckoning pull of slumber.

The flames roar back into life; this time they lick fiery strands of heat at the hair on his neck; singeing his skin enough that he lets out a painful groan in response, his displeasure spewed out through vibrating teeth. He flounders like a freakin fish just plucked from the water to flop heavy, uncooperative appendages along the moistened dirt.

"Jesus Dean, it's just me. Relax. Damn it, you're freezing, what the hell were you thinking?"

Okay then. Not fire and not flame. Hands.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi. First off, I realize it's been so long you have probably forgotten what this story is about, and I apologize for that, life has been...ummm... complicated. Second, I wrote this in about ten minutes sooooo not too sure about its quality ;) Third, it is a short chapter and they probably will all be short ones from now on or I will never be able to post. Fourth, I hope you will enjoy._

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><p>And not just any hands, freakishly huge ones, and that can only mean one thing; Samantha is on the case, <em>his<em> case, and he is so not in the mood for this shit right now.

"Hang on man, be right back."

Sam's footsteps crunch along the ground and he hears the distinctive sound of a car door opening and closing. Sheesh, he hates when Sam talks to him like he's got the intelligence akin to something like a sack of potatoes. He hisses as he tries to straighten his body out, the numbness and pain in his side making it impossible to move out of the s-curve stance he's adopted on the damp, soggy, dirty, annoying, stupid, and friggin' irritating ground.

Really, it kind of goes without saying at this point, pretty much a guarantee that he won't be making a break for it. He hurts like a bitch and hell, he can't even be sure his damn appendages are still attached let alone up to the challenge of springing up from the ground and running off like an idiot into the night just to piss Sam off. Hmm, on the other hand, doing exactly the opposite of what baby brother wants could be fun.

He lets a small chuckle roll out from his throat at the thought of him hobbling off into the trees while Sam stands dumbstruck and in awe once again of his big brother's awesomeness, and the timing of his little mind-stroll couldn't be worse. Leave it to old Dean Winchester luck to have that sound trickle from his lips the moment Samsquatch makes his triumphant return. He is about to ponder aloud to his brother that if he doesn't tone down the serious, 'Dean's in trouble again' look off his face a bit his eyebrows are gonna be stuck in perma-style concern for the rest of his life, when Sam's behemoth hands paw at him again and invade his coveted personal space.

They are giant, those things, and they are needling a swath of razor blades along the surface of anywhere they touch. If only he could move his own hand enough to flip his brother the bird it could make this whole situation a little less demeaning.

"I'm not even going to ask what the hell is going on in that frozen brain of yours Dean. Trust me, we need to get you out of here and warmed up. Let me take care of it okay?"

Warmed up, that does have a nice ring to it but, on the other hand, he knows the look in Sam's eye; it screams out 'now I'm gonna do something you are going to hate but I'm going to do it anyways because I always think I know best and you aren't in any condition to argue and…' The monologue running rampant through his head stops cold when his brother produces a blanket from flippin' _somewhere_ and bends down to his level with it. Sam _cannot_ be serious.

"Ready?"

Hell. No. Number one, no freakin' way is Sam going to scoop him up off the ground and number two, no freakin' way is he going to wrap him up in a damn blanket like he's an invalid.

"geddd 'way S'm… m'good..."

Well frick, that was delivered with a tone and inflection so pathetically pathetic that it makes even him think maybe he needs Sam's help after all. Damn it.

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><p><em>To Be Continued... Thanks for stopping by!<em>


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